You couldn’t tell by looking at him that he’d murdered a young woman in cold blood last night.
Ice coursed through her as she recalled opening the apartment door that had been left ajar. Mary Kay Ross-Harper, a ninth grade history teacher, lay in the center of the living room, whimpering and dying. Body torn and violated, she’d managed to whisper a single name while Mara waited by her side for the ambulance to arrive.
Arthur Rabbe.
Mara sipped at her drink, the cold liquid trailing fire down her throat. She would have preferred a glass of wine or a Diet Coke, but she appreciated the burn as it seared through the memory of the bruised face going slack with death.
Taking another bracing gulp, she reminded herself of the goal. And the reward. For this con, her character drank dry martinis because her mark did. He would appreciate her taste for the man’s drink and her ability to stomach its harsh tones. She welcomed the liquid courage. She needed it.
As Rabbe moved closer, she ran a light hand over her hair, accenting the flash of sparkle on her wrist. Her own short cap of curls was snugged beneath a wig that swung ebony hair at her chin. The sleek bob accented her almond-shaped eyes and drew attention to the beauty mark she’d added to the corner of her mouth.
A creamy strand of pearls circled her long, elegant neck, their restrained luster screaming wealth, and the single diamond drop at their center drew attention downward. The bustier she wore beneath the sheath of red pushed her breasts up to her ears, a fitting frame for the diamond. Only a jeweler’s eye would have known that the one carat stone was counterfeit. Since she’d gotten the necklace from one of L.A.’s finest craftsmen, she wasn’t worried about discovery.
After tonight she’d have more pressing problems.
Rabbe had killed Mary Kay in order to secure a journal. One that could lead him to millions in gold stolen by her grandfather and his cronies and hidden in the desert of the West. Mary Kay’s great-uncle Bailey had been a part of the band of thieves. Bailey, Poncho, Guerva, Reese, and her grandfather Micah. Names she knew by heart.
In her hotel room, Mara had filled a notebook with all the data she’d collected over the years. The leather-bound volume sat on the nightstand with a fresh entry. Before a few nights ago, the last time she’d picked it up was in Sierra, Nevada, where she learned about Bailey’s only remaining relative. She’d finished up a job and headed for Detroit.
Too late to get to Mary Kay before Rabbe did.
The lock had been intact when she arrived, and she could see now how he might have gotten himself invited inside the lady’s apartment. Nearly six feet tall, Rabbe was muscular and broad-shouldered, but not so overwhelming that he scared off customers. The clear green eyes and thin mustache added character to a banally handsome face that could be forgotten in a crowd but could also be fondly remembered. He reminded her of the high school quarterback, with a Luger tucked in his back pocket.
“Ms. Malko?”
The name she had chosen whispered over bare skin as Rabbe spoke from behind her. Taking her time, she lifted her head to meet his eyes in the mirror. “Yes?”
Rabbe waited for her to turn to face him, but she continued to watch him steadily. “Ms. Jennie Malko? I’m Arthur Rabbe.”
She quirked her red-painted lips into a mildly confused smile. Deliberately, she allowed her eyes to warm, skimming over his mirror image, but she remained in place. “Do I know you? I’m certain I would remember if I did.”
Rabbe was irritated by her refusal to turn to meet him, but when he caught her checking him out in the mirror, he relaxed. He angled himself to stand beside her, which forced her to turn to him. Bracing a hand on the bar, he extended the other to her. “No, we haven’t been formally introduced. But we have acquaintances in common. Cassandra Coley mentioned to me that you were staying here this week.”
Nice job, Cassandra, she thought. The cocktail waitress at the MGM had done her job well. “You enjoy gambling, Mr. Rabbe?” To draw attention to her mouth, she took another small taste of her martini, trying not to grimace. She really hated vodka.
“I enjoy games of chance, yes. And please call me Arthur.” Rabbe could feel himself hardening, especially when Jennie Malko shifted on her stool and her skirt slid up her thigh another precious inch. He could have her stripped naked in seconds, he imagined wildly, and his hands curled with anticipation. If she had a sense of adventure, it would be even better. “I’d like to invite you to join me in a game of poker. We’re about to start the game in the club room, and I thought you might enjoy a hand or two.”
Mara gathered her designer handbag and slid off the stool, lightly brushing against Rabbe as she stood in the cramped space between her seat and his body. “Scamming rubes has its charms, but I prefer longer odds. And bigger payoffs.”
Rabbe froze, taken aback. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
With a half smile, she took a final sip of her drink and placed a fifty beneath the glass, generous for a single drink. “I mean you’ve been running this little operation for a few years now. You’ve probably netted enough to have your Cavalier detailed.”
“Bitch.” He balled his fists and crowded her against the bar.
Mara didn’t flinch. “You can pummel me if you’d like, but I doubt your marks would take too kindly to you hitting a defenseless woman.”
“They won’t know if I drag your skinny ass into the alley.” A solid, iron grip closed around her upper arm, bruising flesh. “Give me one good reason not to.”
Five points of agony pulsed beneath his hold. She smiled. “I know about Mary Kay and the journal. Why don’t we retire to your room and you can tell me why I shouldn’t call the police.”
Rabbe thought about killing her then, but knew his new boss wouldn’t approve. Public displays offended Davis Conroy’s sensibilities. The man had peeled a strip off him when he reported that Mary Kay had died—not because he had killed her, but because the cops found her so quickly. Apparently, he had Jennie Malko to thank for the tip to the police. The anger humming through him would make the pleasure of revenge sweeter.
But the lady was right about the lobby. Instead, he’d take her upstairs and first he’d do her, then do her in. Might be worth it to Conroy to find out how the hell the lady knew what he’d been up to last night.
“Follow me.” Without giving her much choice in the matter, he dragged her to the elevator. At his suite, he shoved her inside the spacious room. Before she could speak, his gun found her throat. “Who are you?”
Mara lifted a hand and lightly pushed the barrel away, proud that her fingers didn’t shake. “I’m an interested party.” Feigning nonchalance, she turned and set her handbag on the low coffee table, slipping the vial into her palm. “I had a meeting with Mary Kay last night, but you appear to have met with her first.”
Caressing the barrel lovingly, Rabbe remembered the shocked eyes going blank when he popped her. It made the last time even better. “Little Mary Kay. Tried to tell me she didn’t have my merchandise.”
“So you did find the journal?” Mara slowly released the top with her thumb, not removing her eyes from his. He would do the same to her, if she gave him a chance. She wouldn’t. “I’ve been looking for it myself.”
“Don’t know why.” He had tried to read the pansy writing last night, to find out what inside was worth the $50,000 he’d been authorized to pay. “Just a bunch of rambling about nothing. And crazy pictures.”
“Pictures?” She advanced slowly. “Show me.”
Abruptly suspicious, Rabbe lifted the gun. “What’s your game, honey?”
“No game. I’m ready to retire, and I think you can help.” Whipping her hand around, she tossed the contents of the vial into his face. Simultaneously, she lashed out with her heel and felled the screaming man. The concoction, a recipe from her pal Sebastian, took quick effect.
Seconds later Rabbe was sprawled on the blue carpet, unconscious. Wasting no time, Mara jumped over the body and headed to the closet sa
fe. She’d been a guest of Hardin’s before, and luckily, the Detroit branch offered the same shoddy protection as the others. Cracking safes was a skill she’d honed with years of practice.
With a whir, the lock released and she seized the black journal and a briefcase. She flipped the latch and swiftly determined that the case contained close to fifty grand. Glancing at Rabbe, she slammed the case closed and decided to help herself. He had.
She stepped gingerly over the prone body. Moving quickly, she headed out to her hotel, since the drugs would hold for a couple of hours.
She knew she should take off immediately, but she couldn’t help herself. In her tiny motel room, Mara curled onto the bed and started to read. And dream. Bailey had indeed been one of the five who helped her grandfather. He’d kept copious notes, careful descriptions of his life since then. Time slipped away as she read, engrossed.
When the first bullet lodged into the plywood door, she realized Rabbe had recovered. She scrambled from beneath the meager comforter provided by the motel and splayed herself flat on her stomach between the double beds. Tendrils of first pink light crept through the heavy crimson drapes, dancing dust motes on the air. In the hallways, she could hear the sounds of patrons screaming and the thud of feet rushing to safety.
“Damnit, bitch! I know you’re in there!” The introduction was punctuated by another volley of gunfire.
Mara easily recognized Rabbe’s drunken voice, the insults to her parentage slurring under the influence. How the hell had he found her so quickly? she wondered with mild curiosity as she cased the room for an alternative exit.
“Your friend took some convincing, but she told me where I could find you!” Rabbe yelled. He rammed his shoulder against the door, determined to batter it from its moorings. He’d save his bullets until he got inside, he thought balefully, cursing himself for rushing out without reloading. But at the time, he’d been good and pissed.
Even now, with each collision, his shoulder ached and his temper grew. Once he’d stopped vomiting in his bathroom, he’d been on a tear, fueled by a bottle of tequila and bruised male ego. However, he had managed to salvage of bit of his dignity when he figured out he’d been played by two women—not just the one he was about to kill. Taking another swig from the bottle in his hand, Rabbe growled, “She may never walk straight again. But we had a hell of a time coming to terms.”
Rabbe sniggered at his double entendre, and inside the motel room, Mara closed her eyes over a guilty grief. Cassandra hadn’t been her bosom buddy, but they were friendly. They’d worked together before, selecting marks who deserved to be taken. No one deserved the type of punishment Rabbe had meted out, and as she crouched on the floor, she decided she had no intention of becoming his next victim.
Forcing her breath to steady, she considered her options. From the sound of the creaking wood, she only had a minute, at most. Her choice of abode, the Starburst, wasn’t known for its high-level security team. The clientele were mainly hourly customers, ones who would find it in their best interest not to summon the authorities. She’d chosen it, as she always did, because the proprietor accepted cash and a murmured claim of a missing ID.
As she should have done before, Mara swiftly surveyed the terrain. Two beige and green double beds made of prefabricated wood were bolted to the floor. The single lamp had been welded to the wall, its twin bulbs covered by a nearly transparent shade. The air conditioner lay below a window that seemed to also be made for decoration but not removal. No handle, no sliding apparatus. The doorway to the bathroom was ajar, letting the light seep into the room as she read. No help there, she recalled. The only other furniture in the room was the massive bureau/entertainment unit that sat squarely in the center of the room.
Against a white metal door that joined her room to the next.
Praying that the frugality of the furniture included a cheap unit, Mara moved stealthily to the thirteen-inch set and set it on the floor. She yanked out the plug and unhooked the cable. Then bracing her feet on the air conditioner, she pressed her back to the unit and shoved with all her might. Slowly, it scraped along the carpet, tearing at the mottled blue nap.
Hearing the sound, Rabbe shouted, “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, bitch!” To accentuate his threat, he shot another one of his precious bullets. The projectile sailed through an earlier hole and punctured the pane of glass. A web of cracks quickly spread along the window, and Mara fairly sagged with relief. She abandoned her moving project and snatched the comforter from the nearest bed.
Swathing her hand and ducking her head beneath its protective cover, she cocked her hand and punched through the hole. The fine cracks exploded into shards of glass. In the hallway, Rabbe roared as he realized his prey might escape. He hurried for the glass doors to circle around to the outside.
As Mara expected.
Taking advantage, she grabbed her duffel bag and backpack and rushed for the door. With slippery palms she yanked open the nearly broken sheet of wood and checked the hallway for Rabbe. Coast clear, she raced for the fire exit and took the stairs two at a time. By the time Rabbe made it to the rear of the building and her shattered window, Mara was on the roof of the Starburst, huddled near a turbine, with nowhere to go but down.
Returning to Hollywood wasn’t an option. Not Chicago either, she presumed, given her limited engagement as a psychic who helped solve a crime her partner had committed. The television coverage had been phenomenal, but fatal for a grifter. Paula and Bill were still miffed about the rout in Atlanta, and the Gordon-Russells had become legendary for their creative expressions of temper. Stefanie Grant would probably take a call from her, but hiding out in Liberty, Missouri, had about as much appeal as Rabbe’s plans for her.
She had to face facts, Mara decided, crawling along the ground to peer over the edge of the roof. She’d burned nearly every bridge between San Francisco and Atlantic City. Not that she cared much. Relationships inevitably led to annoying habits like honesty and loyalty. She preferred to keep her life commitment-free. No ties, no responsibilities to anyone but herself. No urge to mold a person into her image or to try to control his every thought. Love was an alchemist’s mockery. She’d succumbed once, and learned her lesson well. For all she knew, he had forgotten her by now.
Mara pulled herself to her knees and watched as Rabbe circled the building, banging on doors. When one opened, she saw her chance. She slithered down the fire escape into the night and quickly gained entry into a Ford Crown Victoria that had to be on its third decade. With the ease of practice, she connected the wires and fired the engine. Sliding down against the cracked green leather, she eased the car into gear and slowly rolled out of the parking lot.
At the freeway exit, she shot up in her seat, gunned the motor and shot onto the ramp. The sign indicated that she was heading south, heading toward home, but she really had nowhere else to go. So she’d drive for Texas, praying for a better idea along the way.
And anything would be better.
Chapter 1
Ragged breath scuttled through heaving lungs as Mara dodged the rusted bumper that jutted out from the nearly deserted parking lot stall. The edge nicked her skin, ripping through thin black cotton pants. Pain zinged along nerve endings made raw by terror, but she ignored the ache and the fear. There would be time to check her wounds later, when monsters weren’t nipping at her heels.
To distract herself, she concentrated on other sounds, other sensations. She could hear the blood pounding through her veins, could hear the wind whipping past her hollowed cheeks. Both told her that she was alive, though not for long if she didn’t find shelter soon.
Muscles burned as she sprinted along the broken, empty sidewalk, her pale brown eyes checking for and discarding possible routes of escape. Above her, the dawn sun shone down with unnerving ferocity, as though daring her to evade its punishing rays. The Sunday sky was cloudless and blue, a lovely and lethal combination. Even at daybreak the temperature had already reached above ninety, with nowher
e to go but up. Old and young alike died in these conditions, even faster if they had spent the past twenty minutes running flat out as she had.
In wet testimony, sweat ran rivulets down her back, soaking the skintight black tank top she’d been wearing for three days. She had no choice. She’d been forced to ditch her duffel bag and nearly all her worldly belongings back in Baton Rouge, when her alarm system—a hostile trailer park owner who didn’t like squatters—threw her out in the middle of the night. Luckily, she’d decided to sleep in her favorite shirt and the loose-fitting pants that breathed in the dank heat of what passed for a southern summer. She’d snagged her backpack with its frayed wallet containing thirty-six bucks and the lumpy, crude quilt called “Fool’s Paradise,” which Grandma Reed gave her when she was five and too young to sin.
That was a long time ago.
The streets flew past in rapid succession, each stretching longer than the last. It was a trick of the mind, Mara knew, because the town had been laid out by stodgy city planners with every avenue and boulevard a uniform length. The very sameness of the place had always galled her, but she welcomed the homogeny today. She would only have to rely on stubborn memory for shortcuts and hideaways.
If she survived this, Mara thought wistfully, and things worked out as she planned, in a few weeks she’d check into the finest hotel in Dubai and soak for days in a tub of cool water that smelled of rose hips and lavender. She’d buy a stack of paperbacks and wouldn’t emerge until every page had been read. But the pleasant image ended abruptly when she heard the squeal of tires signaling that her pursuers were catching up. And then flakes of dried mud bricks spattered as a bullet lodged in a wall inches from her ear.
Hidden Sins Page 2
